Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing
Authors Notes: Strong tones of Holmes/Watson friendship/brotherhood.
Warnings – I discuss the vile practice of men preying on young boys for unsavoury purposes in this one – and Holmes comes to the wrong conclusion (I can't say anything else cos it'll ruin the suspense). Just thought that you should know that topic comes up later on; nothing graphic is described though.
Medals Not Worn In Public
The Middle of the Matter – Lestrade
To say that Mr Holmes appeared dead was no exaggeration. Only the fact that the doctor crouched over him was attempting to get the man up off the floor and into a bed convinced Lestrade that he was still among the living – though not for long if the state he'd gotten himself into was any indication.
Mrs Hudson had been beside herself. She'd lost weight herself and was looking decidedly peaky. This business with the lost boy had affected her badly, as had Mr Holmes' selfish sulk. She'd spoken in a very disjointed way of what sounded like two weeks of hell – why the poor woman hadn't just thrown the man out onto the street was beyond comprehension. She was clearly in no fit state to contact this club she mentioned – it wouldn't have been proper for her to do so in any case – and so Lestrade took himself off to Pall Mall, uncomfortably aware that he had no idea who he was going to contact or what he would say once he had arrived.
The doorman had looked him over with undisguised disdain and it had been all he could do to keep a civil tongue in his head. Lestrade hated dealing with people who had delusions of stature; it made things so much more difficult than they needed to be. For all that he was a gentleman; Dr Watson was at least easy to get along with. No airs or graces about him, just a quiet gentility of manner that was extended to all he met, regardless of their station in life. It was one of the things that had eased his way into being accepted among the men of Scotland Yard.
Lestrade sighed as he was led to a room upstairs with a large bow window and books that were worth more than his annual salary. He was instructed in a cold tone to wait there, and then abandoned to the books and leather seats. Suppressing the urge to fidget nervously or stick his hands in his pocket, Lestrade moved to glance over the titles on the shelves, feigning an interest in French poetry until the door opened and one of the widest men he'd ever met entered the room.
He was balding, well dressed, extremely corpulent, with the most arresting grey eyes that Lestrade had ever seen. In fact he'd only ever met one other person with eyes quite that colour and wondered what precisely the relationship between Mr Holmes and this gentleman was. The man certainly had the same abrupt manner of speaking as Mr Holmes, not to mention the uncomfortable way of looking a chap over as if he was a specimen in a zoo, making a conclusion based upon that assessment and filing it away for later.
"You are here on behalf of Sherlock Holmes? I take it you have news of him for me?" the man didn't bother to introduce himself, which made Lestrade tighten his lips for a moment. Two could play at that game, he decided.
"Mr Holmes has fallen extremely ill. He left instructions that a message to that effect was to be sent to this club with his landlady should such a thing ever occur," Lestrade said it simply, without inflection. The cool tone surprised the corpulent man before him, who had obviously been expecting a certain amount of deference.
"Where is Dr Watson?" the other asked and it was all Lestrade could do not to shrug. That was the thousand pounds question that most of London was asking. Things would never have got this bad if Watson had been around taking care of matters. In fact Lestrade was sure that they'd have recovered the lost boy if Watson had been there – Mr Holmes seemed to work better when the good doctor was around, though no one ever dared to say as much out loud lest that opinion get back to the consulting detective.
"He is not in town. We have no idea where he is. I do know that Mr Holmes situation is not directly the result of Dr Watson's absence. He failed in a case that was particularly important to him personally," it pained him to say it, but Lestrade was not in the habit of lying when delivering bad news. Best to have it all out at once was his motto.
"Very well, you may go," the corpulent man nodded and Lestrade restrained the impulse to tug his forelock and mutter 'yes milord', such was the other mans tone. He nodded instead and walked quietly past the other man, who had appeared to have forgotten his existence already. That was just fine with Lestrade.
As he walked out of the preternaturally silent club he thanked his lucky stars that he hadn't been born a gentleman.
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